


dead man's dream

by feistycadavers



Category: Motionless in White (Band), Tim Sköld (Musician)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Burns, Cigarettes, Daddy Kink, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, Fantasy Fulfillment, Knifeplay, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Objectification, Partner Swapping, Smoking, Spit Kink, Under-negotiated Kink, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:35:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22057138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feistycadavers/pseuds/feistycadavers
Summary: “You want him?” Ricky asks. “You’re one of his hall passes. I’ll share.” Chris’s stomach seems to fall through his ass and onto the floor. When they’d talked about hall passes when they first got together, he was mostly joking. He didn’t think Tim would ever actually, y’know, be an option. Chris cranes his head back, looks at Ricky, upside down in his view. There’s not a hint of sarcasm in his face. Ricky’s hands bracket Chris’s head, straighten his gaze forward at Tim again.or, in which chris is an ash tray and then literally gets his eyebrows face-fucked off.
Relationships: Chris "Motionless" Cerulli/Ricky "Horror" Olson, Chris "Motionless" Cerulli/Ricky "Horror" Olson/Tim Sköld, Chris "Motionless" Cerulli/Tim Sköld
Comments: 18
Kudos: 51





	dead man's dream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cobwebsaint](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobwebsaint/gifts).



> FDKJGHDFKJGSD I'M NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR THE SHIT MY TERRIBLE BRAIN GREMLINS DO
> 
> anyway i've owed luke this fic for like a year. it was gonna be a whole bunch of different shit and then i realized this was the perfect terrible idea.
> 
> the aforementioned additional warnings: purposeful burning with cigarettes and maybe veering into consent play if you squint. the dubcon tag is only cuz it's not pre-negotiated. the knifeplay is minimal. daddy kink tag is just for daddy being used as an honorary. no age play here. also it's not tagged nor is it addressed but: open marriage.
> 
> also yes i realize i am asking you to suspend your disbelief and pretend 2012 ricky can be a dom but just. do it for the fic. it's fine. just this one time.
> 
> title from the john 5 song
> 
> EDIT 2/17/2020: i have done a [DVD commentary of this fic!](https://bringmoreknives.dreamwidth.org/119185.html)

Chris has himself as tucked into the corner of the couch in Tim’s studio as small as possible. His hands rest in his lap, uploading another picture of Tim’s graffiti on his Morrissey portrait tattoo to Twitter. He’s already managed to wipe most of the Sharpie off with spit and some vigorous rubbing and smearing with his fingers, but he’ll need soap to get the rest of the mustache off him. Tim’s more of a Robert Smith kinda guy.

Chris is sort of getting impatient for Ricky and Tim to come back inside. They keep breaking for a smoke at a pace that Chris thinks is excessive. Then again, he doesn’t smoke. The studio smells like smoke anyway and there’s an ashtray on the table next to the console, but goddamn Tim and his fucking _manners_ , he’d insisted they go outside for breaks so as not to bother Chris’s “delicate virgin lungs”, as he’d joked. Chris turns towards the blinds covering the window above the couch, slots a finger between two slats about eye level, and pulls down to peek through. He sighs.

Truth is, he wouldn’t _mind_ Ricky and Tim smoking inside. If only so he can watch. Chris had once asked his therapist if being so turned on by watching his partner smoke is some kinda Oedipus thing because his mom smoked, but didn’t get a firm answer. He watches Ricky and Tim, studying. Ricky’s tattooed fingers bringing his cigarette to his mouth, taking a long drag, then holding it for a moment before blowing it out his nose. Ugh. Chris wishes he was blowing that in his face. Tim’s hands are wider than Ricky’s, nails painted red, flicking his ashes. They’re nearly done, judging by the fact they’re both almost down to the filter. Tim laughs at something Ricky says, and Chris sighs.

Chris is still getting used to this whole Hanging Out With Tim Skold thing. Chris was 16 when _The Golden Age of Grotesque_ came out, which was like, prime Teenage Boy Who Cannot Physically Stop Jerking Off time in his life, and he’s lost count of how many nuts he’s busted about this guy. Who is standing ten feet from him, albeit on the other side of a wall. Chris would be lying if he claimed not to have cranked one out in the shower last night about him. Which Ricky had found entirely too amusing. But then they made out about it, so it was okay. Chris sort of wonders if Erin or Tim were suspicious they didn’t argue at all about having to bed share while they’re staying at the Skold place for writing.

That train of thought is interrupted when Ricky turns back towards the studio a bit, eyes flicking over to meet Chris’s. _Shit_. Busted. Ricky smirks, keeps the eye contact as he takes a long drag, lets the smoke fall out from his lips. Fuck. Fuck. _Now is not a good time_ , Chris thinks at his dick, which has just twitched awake. Ricky doesn’t look away, even as he drops his cigarette to the dirt to stomp it out, and Chris breaks the eye contact first as he lets go of the blinds, draws back into the corner of the couch, and looks down at his Twitter feed again. At least Tim hadn’t seen him. That’d be even more embarrassing. Chris is sure he’s gonna get his ear talked off about that later tonight.

It’s a long moment before the studio door opens again. Tim holds it open for Ricky, who nods to him, and Ricky wastes no time in walking directly over to Chris and grabbing a fistful of his shirt. Chris starts a little as he yanks him upright, back lifting off the couch.

“Were you watching us smoke like a creep, pervert?” Ricky asks, voice cutting, and Chris just sort of stares at him, because uh, that’s Ricky’s Big Mean Dom voice, which is a Strictly Bedroom Only voice, and not only are they not in bed but Tim is Right There, tossing his pack of reds onto the table in front of the console and sitting in the spinning chair, turning to face them. What the fuck?

“Uh, Rick,” Chris says, because he’s not entirely sure if he wants to get into this right now. With an audience. Who was teenage Chris’s default jerk off fodder. 

“I know how you feel about smoking,” Ricky says, his hand letting go of Chris’s shirt and grabbing him by the hair instead. Chris hisses at the tug. “Did I tell you you could watch us, or did you not understand that us going outside meant you didn’t have permission?”

“ _Dude_ ,” Chris says, very feelingly. It’s not that he’s not into this - he really, _really_ is, if his boner is any indication - but they’ve never really done this kind of thing involving anyone else.

“I already asked our host,” Ricky says, as if to answer Chris’s question he hadn’t even asked, “and he agrees that you’d make a better ashtray than the one he’s already got in here. Didn’t he?” Ricky yanks Chris’s hair, forces him to crane his neck to look at Tim. Chris’s face burns.

“I may have said that,” Tim says, grinning with half his mouth. “Rick mentioned to me you have a bit of a thing for smoking.” Tim’s hand is reaching back to grab his pack and his lighter. Oh no. He _knows_ about the smoking thing.

“How much did you _tell_ him?” Chris asks, eyes turned up to Ricky, not really offended, more curious. He’s not necessarily unhappy about this development, especially considering Tim hasn’t kicked them out of the studio yet, just wanting a little more context to why, exactly, Ricky has decided to initiate a scene right now. 

“He apologized about us having to share the guest bed,” Ricky says, his voice softening. “I told him it wasn’t an issue since we do it all the time anyway. He asked, I told him, I saw you watching us, and here we are.” He turns Chris’s face back up to his. “You up for it?” Fuck, yeah, Chris is up for it. Chris nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, okay.” Ricky smiles, yanks Chris’s hair. 

“Floor,” Ricky says. Chris slides from the couch to his knees, and Ricky takes his place, letting go of his hair. “Go ask Tim if he’ll smoke a cigarette for you to watch, then.” Chris freezes up, staring at Ricky. He can’t really expect Chris to just _ask_ him like that. Ricky knows how Chris feels about him. He’s already nervous enough. “Was I unclear?” Ricky asks, voice harder.

“I-,” Chris stutters, wanting to find an excuse but none coming to him. “No, you weren’t.”

“Then go ask,” Ricky says. He’s going into his pocket for his own cigarettes. Chris hesitates, but turns around on his knees, crawls the short distance to Tim’s boots. Chris is so embarrassed his _ears_ feel hot. He can’t bring himself to look Tim in the face.

“Um, can you-” Chris starts, but pauses, rephrases. “Would you be so generous as to smoke a cigarette so I can watch?” Chris’s voice is quiet, small.

“Are you asking me, or my boots?” Tim’s voice goes from above him, and Chris winces. Fuck. He doesn’t lift his head any more than strictly necessary, but looks up to meet Tim’s eyes. He swallows dryly.

“May you please smoke a cigarette so I can watch you?” Chris asks, voice a little less shaky this time. Tim grins.

“Sure, sweetheart,” he says, patting Chris on the cheek in a rather patronizing gesture. Tim pulls a cigarette from the carton, places it between his lips, leans down closer to Chris, elbows resting on his knees. “This close enough?” Tim remarks, out of the side of his mouth. Chris just nods dumbly. Tim brings the lighter up, flicks it, and Chris jumps when the flame sparks up. Hears Ricky snort a laugh behind him.

“What’re you so nervous for?” Ricky asks, and Chris hears the floorboards shift behind him as he stands, feels Ricky’s hands on his shoulders. Chris’s eyes stay on Tim’s cigarette as he inhales. “I’m right here. You’re alright.” Chris nods, and Tim sighs smoke.

“Yeah, it’s just me,” Tim remarks. Chris opens his mouth, wants to say something, but he doesn’t know what and nothing comes out. Ricky laughs behind him again.

“I think that’s the problem,” Ricky says. He winds his fingers in Chris’s hair, pulls his head back up again, holds it there this time. Chris wants to tell Ricky to shut up, stop him now before he says anything even more embarrassing, but he feels braindead, with Tim this close to his fucking face, holding his cigarette out to be ashed. Chris opens his mouth automatically, lolls his tongue out for it.

“That it’s me?” Tim asks, flicking his cigarette, and Chris flinches when hot ash hits his tongue.

“Yeah, listen,” Ricky says - and Chris can hear he’s trying to stifle laughter - “Chris has had a thing for you for-fucking- _ever_.” Chris feels his face go lava hot. Fuck. _Fuck_. Tim just smirks, brings his cigarette back to his lips, the cherry burning red when he inhales. 

“Yeah?” Tim asks. He’s looking at Chris but speaking to Ricky. “I mean, I know he said he’s a Manson fan.” As if Chris isn’t even there. Tim blows smoke in Chris’s face, stinging at his eyes, makes him blink. 

“Yeah,” Ricky says. “Angelo told me when he was in high school he had some Golden Age print ad in his locker.” Tim just grins, holds Chris’s jaw in his hand as he ashes into his mouth again. “Keep your tongue out,” Ricky says, smacking Chris on the cheek, half-hearted.

“That’s sweet,” Tim says. He brings his thumb up, smears black ash across wet tongue. Chris whines, wants desperately to close his mouth around Tim’s thumb, suck it. Ricky smacks him again, harder this time.

“Shut up,” Ricky says. “Ash trays don’t make noise. We’ve been over this.”

They have. Chris nods once to show he understands.

“Anyway, so -- fuckin’, get this, right,” Ricky’s saying, and Chris is listening but watching Tim’s mouth, his fingers, as he smokes. Tim’s hand is still loosely on his jaw. “So he was showering last night. And I go in there to get something out of my bag-” oh no, _no_ , not _this_ “-and he’s in there beating off.” Chris winces at the words as much as he can with his mouth wide open, but Tim smiles around his cigarette, huffs a laugh that comes out his nose as smoke.

“Let me guess,” Tim says. “He was trying to keep from losing it in his fuckin’ pants just being at my house. Right?” God. Chris closes his eyes, hoping he can somehow will himself to teleport back to Scranton. No luck. Ricky’s laughing, but raking his fingers through Chris’s hair in a way that’s reassuring, even though he’s exposing Chris for his jerk off habits. “C’mon. I’m not judging you. That’s flattering.” Tim’s addressing him directly, so he opens his eyes, and Tim is offering him more ash, as if waiting for his permission. Chris takes a moment to swallow the spit in the back of his throat, but opens his mouth again, offers his tongue. Tim flicks his ash onto it.

“You want him?” Ricky asks. “You’re one of his hall passes. I’ll share.” Chris’s stomach seems to fall through his ass and onto the floor. When they’d talked about hall passes when they first got together, he was _mostly_ joking. He didn’t think Tim would ever actually, y’know, be an option. Chris cranes his head back, looks at Ricky, upside down in his view. There’s not a hint of sarcasm in his face. Ricky’s hands bracket Chris’s head, straighten his gaze forward at Tim again.

What Chris doesn’t expect is for Tim to take the last drag of his cigarette, smile with shark teeth, and say, “Hell yeah.” That’s when Chris’s stomach drops through the floor completely.

“Where do you want to put that out?” Ricky asks. He reaches down over Chris’s shoulder, grabs at his shirt, yanks it up, exposing his stomach. “There’s some good real estate down here.” Chris can feel Tim looking him over, taking in the round scars peeking out from under the waistband of his underwear where Ricky has put out cigarettes on him before.

“What about under here?” Tim asks, grabbing Chris’s jeans by the fly, popping the button open. There’s no way Tim _can’t_ feel how hard he is. Tim mouths his cigarette, nearly down to the filter, wrestles Chris’s jeans undone. “Get ‘em down,” he says, and Chris whines, even as he sits up off his knees to pull his jeans and his underwear down together around his thighs. Tim grabs his cock in one hand and takes his cigarette in the other, turns it over between his fingers, and a flash of panic runs hot through Chris.

“Wait,” Chris says, flinching away, and Tim stops. “Wait.”

“You alright?” Tim asks. Ricky brings the hand that isn’t holding his shirt up out of the way to Chris’s hair. Chris knows Tim can see the pinkish grey circular scars littered across his hip and down onto his thighs, into the crease where his thigh meets his hip, all the way right up to the base of his dick. Chris nods quickly.

“Yeah, s’okay, sorry,” Chris says. “I just. Reflex.”

“He’s just never had a cigarette put out _on_ his dick before,” Ricky explains, and Chris is still sort of processing that Tim’s got his hand fisted around the base of his cock.

“Is it okay if I do that?” Tim asks, meeting Chris’s eyes again. Chris swallows dryly.

“Yeah,” Chris says. “You can.” He pauses. “I want you to.”

“Yeah?” Tim asks. “Yeah, okay. Y’know.” He takes care not to flick the bit of ash left above the filter drop off as he brings his smoke down inches from Chris’s cock, and he jerks reflexively. “If you wanna jack off while thinking about me so bad. Maybe I ought to make it so you _can’t_ jack off _without_ thinking about me. At least for awhile.” The cigarette is close enough to his cock that Chris can feel the heat off the cherry.

“Please,” Chris whines. A plea for Tim to do it, not one for him to stop. Ricky pulls his back into his legs, holding him steady, and mercifully, Tim spits on Chris’s dick before smashing the butt into it, and Chris cries out at the pain, all burnt sensitive cock, grabbing at Ricky’s legs behind him. Tim really digs it in, and tears sting at Chris’s eyes when he squeezes them shut, gritting his teeth through it, and just as soon as it seems to start, it’s over, and Tim’s flicking the butt into the ashtray on the table next to him, taking Chris’s face in his hands. 

“You’re so good,” Tim says, and when Chris opens his eyes again, Tim’s face is close. “Look. Look how hot that looks.” And when Chris looks down and sees the smear of black and grey ash on the top of the shaft of his cock about halfway down, he can’t help but think about how nice that’s gonna scar. “Look, you’re even more of an ashtray now.”

“Thanks,” Chris says, turning his eyes back up at Tim’s, and Tim grins.

“You’re so fucking welcome,” Tim says. He looks up at Ricky behind Chris. “Can I fuck his face?” Chris shudders and feels his cock jerk at just the words. Had Ricky told him about _that_ too?

“Be my guest,” Ricky says, letting go of Chris and stepping back. “He’s all yours. I’m happy to watch.” Chris’s stupid heart slams against his ribs. He hears Ricky sit back on the couch, probably to light up again, and Tim nudges one of Chris’s knees with his boot, a gesture to get him to back up, which he does. He shuffles back as best he can with his jeans around his knees.

“Do I need to restrain your arms, or can you keep that shit under control yourself?” Tim asks, and Chris is having a hard time even registering that question on account of Tim’s got his hand on the hard ridge of his cock in his pants, let alone answering it. Shit. That’s a lot of dick. _Shit_. 

“Uh,” Chris says, blinking, surely looking like a moron. “Yeah.”

“That wasn’t a yes or no question,” Tim remarks, and Chris’s face burns its hottest yet. Ricky laughs behind him. Fuck’s sake.

“I would like it,” Chris says carefully, focusing very hard on his words, “if you could tie my wrists so I don’t have to focus so hard on keeping them behind me.” He takes a breath. “Please.”

“There we go,” Tim says, pushing Chris’s hair back off his forehead. “I’d have to go get rope, but I got gaffer tape. Is that alright?”

“Yeah,” Chris says, nodding. Judging by Tim’s grin, he’s really going to enjoy ripping that off him later. He steps away to rifle through a drawer and Chris turns around, looks back over his shoulder at Ricky. He’s already lit up again. Chris raises his eyebrows at him, as if to ask him _what the hell is going on_ , because he still hasn’t caught up yet. Ricky jabs his fingers, cigarette between them, in Tim’s direction, as if to tell him to turn back around. Face forward. Ignore him. When Chris turns back, Tim’s ripping a length of gaffer tape off the roll with his teeth.

“Arms,” Tim says, and Chris puts them behind his back automatically, obeys. Tim kneels behind him, wraps tape around his wrists, swift and confident, and squeezes it to his skin with both hands. “Try it,” Tim says, and Chris pulls at it. There’s enough slack for him to fight it a little, but not enough for him to twist out. “Good. Rick, you gonna watch from all the way back there?” Watch. _Watch_. Chris is pointedly aware that he has an audience, _thanks_ , he doesn’t need the reminder, he wants to say, but he keeps his mouth shut.

“I’m good,” Ricky says. “Go ahead. I’ll be here.”

“Alright,” Tim says, his hand resting on Chris’s shoulder as he stands and he’s suddenly in front of him again, grabbing a fistful of his hair and wrenching his head back, forcing Chris to look up at him. “Are you gonna be good?” Tim asks. Chris is pretty sure something literally short circuits in his brain. Tim’s other hand is undoing his pants.

“Yes, daddy,” Chris says quickly, before he can stop himself, and the grin that splits across Tim’s face could rival that of the Grinch. Chris bites his stupid mouth shut and Ricky’s coughing behind him, choking on smoke, trying not to laugh.

“What was that?” Tim asks, looking entirely too pleased with himself. Chris winces. Goddamn his stupid fucking mouth. He swallows dryly.

“Yes, daddy,” Chris repeats, and Tim brings his hand from his hair to grab him square by the jaw.

“Hey Rick, can I hit him?” Tim asks. Disregarding Chris entirely again.

“Yeah, smack ‘im as hard as you want,” Ricky says, amusement terribly evident in his voice, “just watch the piercings.” Chris doesn’t even have the chance to actually ask Tim to hit him before he brings his hand back and slaps him hard, grabs his face again.

“I am so gonna fuck you the fuck up,” Tim says fondly, and Chris’s head is still spinning as he realizes Tim’s got his cock in his other hand. “You want it bad, huh,” Tim remarks, because it must show on Chris’s face.

“Please,” Chris grits out, but Tim doesn’t say anything for a long moment. As if he’s waiting for him to finish his sentence. Chris corrects himself. “Please, daddy.”

“There we fuckin’ go,” Tim says. “Open.” Chris opens, and Tim shoves himself in all the way to the back of Chris’s throat on the first go. Chris chokes a little, reflexively pulls at his taped wrists. “C’mon, let me in.” Chris shifts a little to sit on his legs, up off the floor, the better angle letting Tim get a decent stroke going. “Good boy,” Tim murmurs, and Chris makes a soft noise back at him. His head’s still not completely caught up to his body, and as Tim pulls him all the way down, Chris sort of remembers that this is _Tim_ and Tim is _fucking his mouth_ and this is one of those dumb fantasies he’d put away forever in the filing cabinet in his head labeled _never gonna fuckin’ happen, Chris_. Chris drools down his chin, eyes lidding. “Hey, stay here. This is your fuckin' fantasy, isn’t it? No spacing out.” Tim slaps lightly at his cheek, Chris reflexively flinching. “Ow – watch your fucking teeth. Don't make me have to slap you again.”

“You should,” Ricky says, voice cold, distant. Detached. Tim pulls back, cock sliding from Chris's mouth, ropes of spit arching the gap. Chris barely has time to register what's about to happen before Tim's hand makes contact with his face, stinging hard, throwing his head off to one side. Chris blinks, taking a long moment to catch up with his body. Shit. _Shit_.

“Sorry,” Chris says, swallowing. Tim smacks him again.

“C’mon, have we not established how you’re meant to address me?” Tim asks. It’s not _mean_. Just _impatient_.

“Sorry, daddy,” Chris says quickly, feels his eyes sting with tears. 

“Are you ready to continue?” Tim's voice is softer, there, genuinely checking in on him. Chris nods.

“Yes, daddy,” Chris says. Tim nods, guides Chris to his cock, and he opens his mouth.

“There we fucking go,” Tim sighs, raking his fingers through Chris's hair. He dicks carelessly into the wet heat of Chris’s mouth, making him choke a little. Tim’s rough, forces his way in, cock incessant at Chris’s throat, wanting entry. Chris gags, coughs, and Tim pulls his head back by his hair, thick spit dripping from his lips. “C’mon, I’m barely getting started.” Chris barely gets a breath in before Tim’s shoving himself back in, right to the back of his mouth, pushing him down on his length. Chris shifts a bit, tries to straighten his neck out to let him in, fists clenched to try to keep from gagging on it.

“Christ, Chris,” Ricky says from behind him, the words startling him back into the room, “I know for a _fact_ you can do better than that.” It stings, even though Chris knows Ricky’s just egging Tim on. Chris shudders, holding back a sob, and Tim yanks him off his cock.

“I’m sorry,” Chris says weakly, voice rough. His eyes fall to Tim’s boots and he clears his throat, trying to relax, but he’s so full of nerves. He realizes he’s been pulling at his taped wrists without noticing, body wound tight and tense from the adrenaline.

“You don’t learn, do you?” Tim asks. He’s reaching behind him to grab for something on his desk, and then Chris hears the distinctive _shlink_ of a pocket knife opening above him. Oh. _Oh._ Chris isn’t sure how Ricky spilled so much about him in the few minutes they’d spoken outside, but he was _thorough_.

“Daddy,” Chris says quickly, words falling out before he can even think about them, “I’m sorry; I’ll do better, I--”

“You will,” Tim says, a threat. Chris shudders as cold blade tilts his jaw up, a few tears breaking from his lashes. “You’ll be so pretty when this makeup starts running.”

“Please, daddy,” Chris chokes out, and Tim grabs Chris’s jaw with the same hand that holds the knife, blade laying against his cheek.

“There it is,” Tim says. “Y’know, you’re the one that called me that first. I didn’t think it’d be so hard for you to remember to say it when you apparently couldn’t keep it to yourself a moment ago. I thought this was such a big fantasy for you.” Tim’s mouth is fast. “Did you have a poster in your room? Did you jerk off to my picture?”

“Fuck, I’m sorry; I just can’t fucking think,” Chris says, black streaking down his cheeks. A tear meets the knife blade and Tim drags it across his face, the spine of it, not cutting, just cold.

“I’ll give you a moment,” Tim says, flicking the knife shut with a _click_. “I think I’ll make it a little easier for you so you don’t _have_ to think.” Chris sniffs, nose starting to run, which only serves to humiliate him further. “Rick, will you come over here and hold his head still for him?” Chris straightens up, looks over his shoulder at Ricky, who’s lighting his second cigarette. He sucks in a long drag, exhales smoke.

“I would _love to_ ,” Ricky says, placing his cigarette between his lips and getting up from the chair. Ricky comes up behind him, drops down to kneel there, one knee down, and he pushes his hips forward enough that Chris’s bound hands feel his hard cock in his pants. “I just wanted you to know how much I’m enjoying this,” Ricky says sweetly, hands fisting in Chris’s hair. He wrenches his head over, presses a kiss to tear streaked cheek, then he straightens Chris’s head, held firmly in place. “You still with us?” Chris bites back a smile.

“Never better,” he says. Ricky grins.

“Do your worst, Tim.”

Chris barely has time to open his mouth before Tim’s cock is back in it, forcing its way in. Chris reflexively tries to back his head off, but Ricky holds him still. Fuck. _Fuck_. He has nowhere to go, no choice but to take it. He kind of half-coughs, somewhere between needing to gag and choking on the smoke from Ricky’s cigarette. Chris’s throat protests; he sputters, drool stringing from his chin.

“Let me _in_ ,” Tim says, his voice a low growl. Chris shifts as best he can, and Ricky lets one hand leave Chris’s hair long enough to flick his ashes at him. Ricky sort of just shoves Chris down on Tim’s cock, and Chris straightens his throat enough to take him all the way down, his spine arching reflexively as his body tries to gag, his nose pressed against Tim’s body. Chris barely has a chance to adjust before Tim’s moving in a jagged rhythm, and Chris chokes a little every time he dicks his way in.

“I’m kinda glad you had me hold his hair,” Ricky says, lips tight as he’s holding onto his cigarette in the corner of his mouth. “He looks fucking _pretty_. View’s much better here than it’d be from the couch.” The compliment swells in Chris’s chest a little, and Ricky pulls his head off for air. Chris coughs in earnest, thicker throat spit dripping from his mouth. Tim gathers it with his hand, wipes it all over Chris’s face, smearing his makeup. Chris sobs softly, humiliated. Tim just pulls Chris’s cheek out with a hooked finger and Ricky takes the hint, filling Chris’s mouth with cock again. Chris shudders, tries his best to do _something_ with his tongue, but with Ricky fucking Chris’s mouth down on Tim’s cock and Tim fucking back up into his mouth, he’s too overwhelmed to be coordinated. Tim angles Chris’s mouth down a little, his length hitting something deep in the back of his throat, and Chris retches horribly on Tim’s length. Ricky pulls his head back, and Chris coughs, black tears streaking down his face, covered in spit and snot.

“Are you gonna puke?” Tim asks. “I might be into that.” Chris laughs, throat raw.

“M’still good,” Chris sniffs. Ricky pulls his head back, ashes his cigarette onto his face. Tim’s absently jerking his cock.

“He’s got a pretty shitty gag reflex,” Ricky says, the cherry burning close enough to Chris’s cheek he can feel its warmth. He looks down at Chris. “I should put this out on your tongue after Tim’s finished with you.”

“I want to come in his mouth,” Tim says, laying his dick across Chris’s messy face. He traps it against his skin with his thumb, rubbing against him, marking his territory. Ricky mouths his cigarette once more and fists his hands in Chris’s hair, guiding him right back down. Tim’s rough and careless, and Chris is sort of half gagging still every time his nose nudges into Tim’s body. Chris doesn’t know how long it lasts. He gurgles uselessly around the cock in his mouth, feeling utterly used, like one of those masturbation sleeves. Which is all he is, really. A hole for Tim to jack off with. The thought makes his cock jerk, but luckily, the other two are too preoccupied to notice. Tim growls from above him, pulling Chris out of his thoughts. 

“Don’t swallow,” Ricky says, cigarette between his lips, smoky breath close to Chris’s ear.

“I’m gonna come,” Tim grits out. He grabs at Chris’s hair, yanks his head in close, his cock throbbing in his mouth, then pulls him off just enough to spill onto Chris’s tongue. Chris gags, whole body lurching as Ricky’s fingernails dig into his scalp as Tim wrings the last drops out of his length, pulls back.

“Tongue,” Ricky orders. A familiar command in a familiar voice, which Chris obeys immediately, opening his mouth and lolling his tongue out, come spilling out and dripping onto his chest, running down his shirt. Ricky brings his cigarette around and smashes it into Chris’s tongue, making him whimper, but the burn isn’t so bad given Ricky has put it out right where the most come and spit is - a gesture that only takes Chris out of it for half a second. Ricky wipes the ashes across Chris’s tongue, spits in his mouth, and Chris swallows, sucks the mess off Ricky’s fingers. Tim drops back into his chair, panting for breath. Chris feels thoroughly ruined in the best way, covered in spit and tears and come and snot and cigarette ash, knows his makeup must be wrecked.

“You made quite a mess on my floor,” Tim remarks, and Chris looks down where he’s leaked precome all over the hardwood floor. Tim brings his boot around to Chris’s cock, pins it to his thigh, and Chris’s breath hitches as he jerks up into the contact. He hisses instantly at the jolt of pain from the burn. Fuck. “Hurts, huh?”

“Yes, daddy,” Chris whines, craning his head back to push his face into Ricky’s neck, and Ricky holds his head there.

“It’ll hurt worse before it gets better,” Tim says. “I know from experience.” He grabs his pack. “Mind if I smoke?” he remarks, and Chris actually laughs at that, blissed out without even coming.

“You’re both terrible,” Chris says into the crook of Ricky’s neck. Ricky pets Chris’s hair.

“Yeah, we know,” Tim says. “Let me get that tape off you.”

(They make it up to him later when Tim decides to crash in their bed that night.)

**Author's Note:**

> ao3userfeistycadavers.tumblr.com


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